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1.
Discovering free use has changed Shane’s life for the better. The adrenaline mixed with shame and pure, blissful submission is a sensation that he has slowly become addicted to. He craves the feeling of Ilya just taking— whatever he wants, whenever he wants, wherever he wants. A huge part of Shane’s satisfaction comes from the pleasure he’s able to give Ilya.
He’s in the middle of a yoga routine when Ilya returns home from having lunch with some of the Centaurs. Shane had politely declined the invitation, reasoning that his social battery was running on fumes and couldn’t handle an outing with friends. Ilya understood, of course, honing in on his ability to read Shane like a user manual. A certain furrow of his brow, a twitch just under his left eye, a very specific scrunch of his nose; all signs that point to an overstimulated Shane, and not in the good way.
Shane tries to do his yoga routine when Ilya is busy or out of the house, knowing that it never gets done with his husband around. He really can’t blame him, Ilya is only a man, and a man can only handle the image of his love dressed in the tightest, tiniest shorts in existence for so long without acting on instinct.
Deep down, Shane knew that Ilya would return home before he finished his routine. He purposely left the door to their home gym ajar, music loud enough to echo through the house and draw Ilya closer once he walked through the front door.
Through the music, Shane’s ears perk up at the sound of Ilya padding down the hallway and positions himself in an enticing display. Shirtless, ridiculously tight shorts, bent over in rabbit pose with his head on the mat while he holds onto his heels.
Ilya makes his presence known by turning down the volume, but otherwise stands silently in the doorway attempting to keep his breath steady.
“Need any help?” He asks teasingly.
Shane doesn’t respond. A beat passes.
“Shane…?”
He’s finally granted a response in the form of a quiet grunt, Shane wiggling his hips just slightly to send a message.
Ilya’s breath hitches. Another beat passes.
He creeps forward slowly, socked feet taking muted steps toward Shane as if he’s a tiger hunting its prey.
Wordlessly, he drops to his knees and slides his fingers into the waistband of Shane’s shorts, tugging them down just under the cleft of his ass. A soft groan breaks the silence, followed by a shaky inhale as Ilya stares at the plug Shane has nestled inside.
“Gospodi,” Ilya says under his breath, marveling at the slick ring of lube framing the base of the plug, a small track trailing down his perineum where it seeps out.
Ilya is hard within seconds, it’s almost painful how quickly his cock stiffens. He slides the plug out steadily, making sure his movement is extra meticulous as Shane stretches around the widest part of the toy. Lube dribbles out of his stretched hole, mimicking the drool inevitably falling from Ilya’s mouth.
He leaves Shane for a split second, quickly grabbing a sachet of lube from their hidden gym stash, but not fast enough for Shane’s incessant desperation. Shane whines, sound muffled in the yoga mat, and begins rocking his hips back into nothing. His hole clenches around the emptiness, starving for Ilya’s touch.
“Such a greedy little toy… fuck dolls aren’t supposed to make noise, sweetheart,” Ilya mumbles as he kneels behind him again. Shane can’t help but whimper at the degradation.
The slick sound of Ilya coating his cock in lube is the only warning Shane gets before he sinks in, bottoming out with one swift motion that knocks the air out of Shane’s lungs.
Ilya maintains an agonizingly slow rhythm at first, steadily building speed with each grunt that falls from his lips. Shane struggles to keep quiet, fighting against his own body to bury the noises deep in his chest. One particularly hard thrust knocks a whine out of him. Ilya stills his hips almost immediately.
“Hmm, I guess this one is defective. Must be missing the part that keeps the mouth quiet,” Ilya tuts and fully pulls out, emitting a pathetic sob from Shane.
Strong hands on Shane’s hips manhandle and maneuver him until the clothes are completely removed from his legs. One of Ilya’s hands slides down the plane of his back, gripping the back of his neck to pull his body up until it’s flush against Ilya’s chest. The other hand brings Shane’s wadded up briefs to his face, forcing the fabric into his mouth before shoving his head back down to the yoga mat.
Shane moans again, the muffled sound pulling a groan from Ilya in response.
“Perfect. No more interruptions while I use my favorite toy.”
When Ilya enters him this time, he shows no mercy. Redness blooms across the back of Shane’s thighs with each slap of Ilya’s skin against his, a delicious heat seeping down to the bone. Shane’s sure that he’ll wake up tomorrow with ten bruises on his hips in the shape of Ilya’s fingertips.
The underwear in his mouth is bitter with his sweat and musk from the day. It’s soothing for his oral fixation. Almost perfect, but it would be more satisfying with Ilya’s briefs—being able to savor his scent, drowning in his essence.
Ilya pauses his thrusts for a split second, grabbing Shane’s wrists and holding them together at the small of his back with one hand, the other gripping where Shane’s neck meets his shoulder.
The new angle causes every thrust to hit his prostate. Shane can no longer keep quiet, muffled cries loud enough to slip through the drool-soaked fabric of the briefs.
“Noisy little doll, aren’t you? Might have to send you back for a factory reset.”
Ilya uses his grip on Shane to pull his body back up against his chest, sliding the hand on his shoulder to grip his neck. Palm pressed to his throat, Ilya’s fingers grip the edge of his jaw as his lips brush against his ear.
“What should I tell them, hm?” He whispers, borderline growling with how raspy his voice is. “Should I say that you malfunctioned? Or that you already came to me broken, completely worthless?”
Shane bites hard into the fabric filling his mouth, holding back sobs as tears form in the corners of his eyes. One particularly hard thrust forces the tears to fall, stifled sobs spurring Ilya on as his speed picks up.
The familiar squeeze in Shane’s abdomen causes him to whine, that very specific noise that lets Ilya know he’s close.
Ilya stills with their hips flush against each other, squeezing Shane’s neck with the perfect pressure, just long enough to make his eyes roll to the back of his head. Shane gasps as Ilya releases his grip, dropping the briefs and desperately drawing in air as his mind turns to static.
He barely catches his breath before his head is being pushed back down against the yoga mat. Ilya pulls out until just the tip of his cock rests against Shane’s stretched hole.
Slurred Russian obscenities fill the room as Ilya rapidly jerks himself, his spare hand caressing Shane’s thighs as they shake before moving up to spread him wide open.
Tears continue to soak Shane’s cheeks as the subtle, delicious pain of his ruined orgasm shoots up his spine.
With a broken groan, Ilya coats Shane’s gaped entrance with his cum. He lets a few ropes land up and down the crack of his ass until Shane rocks his hips back slightly, slipping the head past his rim to spill the rest of his release inside of him.
After two shallow thrusts to push his cum deeper, Ilya pulls out. Shane whines in disappointment and fully collapses against the mat, earning a hard smack against his thigh.
“Maybe I will keep you after all,” Ilya says breathlessly.
“Plea-”
“Ah, ah. Fuck toys don’t talk. And they don’t need to cum either, yes?”
Shane stays silent.
Ilya chuckles and stands, stretching out his legs and popping his knees. He turns to leave, but hesitates for a moment before turning back to Shane’s spent body lying still on the yoga mat.
A minute passes, adrenaline rushing through Shane as he waits for Ilya to process his next move.
He feels spit hit his lower back, then the vibrations of Ilya’s heavy footsteps as he walks away.
After Shane finds the strength to stand up, he gathers their scattered clothes and moves to their bedroom on shaky legs to deposit them in the hamper.
In the en suite, Ilya has already drawn an epsom salt bath and dimmed the lights. He greets Shane with a lazy smile and an outstretched hand, guiding his body into the bath.
“Temperature okay?” Ilya asks softly.
Shane nods, leaning back against the edge of the tub where Ilya’s hands move to massage his neck and shoulders.
“Thank you.” Shane’s voice is rough and quiet, barely above a whisper. His eyes flutter closed and a quiet whine escapes his lips as Ilya’s thumb digs into just the right spot at the top of his spine. “How was lunch?”
They fall back into rhythm, switching over to their usual dynamic. The degradation exhibited back in the gym is packed into a box and stored in a completely separate area of their relationship. No matter what is said in the heat of the moment, they both know which parts have no true meaning, which parts to ignore.
Ilya dries Shane off and drains the bath once the water creeps into lukewarm territory. Though Shane, sleepy and half-lidded, insists upon doing his post-sex routine alone, Ilya finds any possible way he can help.
Whenever Shane thinks their relationship couldn’t possibly get any deeper, these moments of intimacy provide an extra foot of space to dig down.
As they crawl into bed that night, Ilya swallows Shane down and has him coming down the back of his throat within minutes.
2.
“Great practice today, boys. See you all tomorrow.”
Ilya leads the Centaurs in a short breakout chant before turning to his locker. He glances at Shane from the corner of his eye, watching as he removes his practice gear and heads for the showers.
As much as he would love to invite Ilya with him into one of the privacy shower stalls, they both agreed that the locker room showers were off limits.
Well, at least while the team was still there.
To help enforce this boundary, they typically take turns showering to prevent any possible erections.
Ilya takes his sweet time removing his practice gear, shoulder pads still on even when Shane returns with wet hair and a towel around his waist.
By the time Shane is dressed, Ilya is finally heading to the showers. The locker room is nearly empty, only a handful of players still lingering.
“I’ll be in the car,” Shane says, planting a quick kiss to Ilya’s cheek as their paths cross.
He doesn’t mind waiting for Ilya, sitting in the car gives him time to reflect on his own performance during practice. However, Ilya seems to be taking longer than usual. The parking lot is empty by now.
Ilya:
[12:47 PM]
moya lyubimyy
I forgot my extra clothes in the car :(
can yuo put them in my locker plz ❤️
Shane:
[12:47 PM]
I told you that you would forget them if you didn’t put them in your bag before we left the house.
Ilya:
[12:48 PM]
yes yes I was wrong you were right
pleaseeeee my shane
I will love you forever
Shane:
[12:48 PM]
So loving me forever wasn’t already the plan?
Ilya:
[12:49 PM]
shane
unless you want my dick to shrivel up in the cold boring canadian weather plz bring my clothes
Shane:
[12:49 PM]
On my way!
Ilya:
[12:49 PM]
thank you)))
Shane shakes his head while grinning down at his phone like a schoolkid with a crush. He shuts off the ignition and climbs out to look for Ilya’s clothes, finding them tossed haphazardly in the backseat.
The locker room is silent when he enters, even the showers are turned off. He calls out for Ilya, furrowing his brows when he receives no response.
“Okay, baby, I’m putting your clothes in your locker. They’ll be here whenever you’re done hiding like a weirdo.”
Shane turns toward Ilya’s stall, taking the time to fold the clothes in a poor attempt to save them from the inevitable wrinkles. After all, they’ve been bunched up in the backseat for several hours.
The air shifts in the room, a tingling heat suddenly rising on the back of Shane’s neck. He ignores it, lining up the sleeves of Ilya’s shirt in his perfected folding technique. He doesn’t notice the silent footsteps sneaking toward him until the joint in Ilya’s ankle pops quietly.
Just as Shane starts to turn his head, a warm presence shoves his upper body into the stall, clothes dropping from his hands as he grips the sides.
A startled noise barely has time to leave Shane’s lips before a hand is clamping over his mouth, another quickly tugging down his shorts and briefs. He hears Ilya spit into his hand, followed by the sound of a towel dropping to the floor.
Two fingers slip into his mouth, pushing down on his tongue and eliciting small gags. Ilya kicks at the sides of Shane’s feet to make them shuffle closer, legs pressed flush together. Spit coats his inner thighs as Ilya slides his cock between them, moving with a rhythm that shoves Shane deeper into the stall on each thrust.
“Fuck that’s good,” Ilya groans, gripping hard at Shane’s hips. “Needed to use my favorite toy after that practice.”
Shane moans sloppily around the fingers in his mouth, drool slipping from his lips and coating his chin. Each thrust makes Ilya’s cock slide deliciously against Shane’s balls, the tiniest bit of friction that borders on just right and not enough.
A few sloppy thrusts are all Ilya needs to coat Shane’s thighs in his release, groaning into his shoulder as he bites down.
He leaves his softening cock between Shane’s thighs until they both catch their breath, keeping Shane steady with a light grip on his waist as he pulls away.
“Now I have to shower again,” Shane grumbles, still leaning against the locker stall with his face resting against his arms.
“Eh… here.” Ilya grabs the discarded towel from the floor and gently wipes the cum from Shane’s skin, diligently avoiding his achingly hard cock. “There. Now we can shower at home and I can fuck you properly.”
“You’re still half-hard after that? What kind of sex monster did I marry?”
“One that makes you finish multiple times without ever touching you,” Ilya retorts pointedly.
“Touché… you’re driving home, though.”
Ilya grins before quickly getting dressed. He tosses the soiled towel with the rest of the dirty ones, making a mental note to buy lunch for the laundry staff.
3.
Despite playing for Ottawa now, Ilya never misses a Boston game. He sometimes travels to see them, but mostly watches from home. It’s guaranteed that he’ll send Cliff live feedback to read after the game.
As per his usual routine, Ilya plops himself down on the couch in one of his old Boston shirts. Shane lets him do his thing, typically opting to catch up on various chores or hobbies while Ilya watches the game, though sometimes stopping in to watch a minute or two—with commentary, of course.
During the first intermission, Shane checks in to see if Ilya wants another beer. Before the question can leave his mouth, his ears pick up at the words coming from the screen.
“Boston is really showing up this year. No doubt thanks to Simon Bachinger, the new recruit out of Germany. We haven’t seen a Boston rookie make this much noise since Ilya Rozanov,” one of the anchors comments, a clip of Ilya during his rookie season playing on a split screen next to one of Bachinger.
“It really is a shame that Rozanov left Boston, you know? And to join a team with, at the time, not a very successful record,” the anchor next to him adds.
“Well, I’m sure hockey fans have deciphered by now that his transfer to Ottawa had something to do with his relationship with Shane Hollander.”
“I’m willing to say what nobody else is brave enough to: I think Rozanov made a terrible decision. There, I said it! Frankly, leaving behind a hockey legacy for your relationship is stup-”
The TV mutes mid-sentence, Ilya snaps his head to the side and spots Shane with the remote in his hand.
“Fucking assholes,” Shane mumbles, glaring down at the remote. “As if they know anything about you! Or us, for that matter.”
Ilya is silent, staring daggers at the TV as if the journalists could see him. Shane knows that look, fully aware that Ilya is a fuse waiting for the tiniest spark to set him off. Jaw clenched, eyebrows furrowed, nostrils flared. It’s terrifying.
(A little sexy too, but that’s irrelevant right now.)
When Ilya finally looks at Shane again, their eyes send silent messages that only they can decipher. Shane raises an eyebrow, waiting for Ilya to give him a small nod before he’s stepping closer and grabbing Ilya’s hand to lead him down the hall.
The trophy room has become a sanctuary, of sorts, the longer that they’ve been together. Ever since Ilya used it to make Shane feel like a king, to drill his legacy into the doubtful parts of his brain, they’ve decided to utilize it during hard times. (Pun slightly intended.)
He pushes Ilya down to sit on the armchair then turns to face the small TV they have mounted on the wall, flipping through the plethora of highlight reels they keep in the media library until he lands on a file titled Rozanov — Boston, 2014.
“Hollander, what—”
“Just watch. Use me. Do whatever you need to feel better.”
Shane drops to his knees and shuffles forward, pulling the waistband of Ilya’s sweatpants down to tuck just under his balls.
Commentators on the screen praise Ilya for a hat trick during a game against Philadelphia just as Shane takes the entire length of his cock into his mouth. Rather than bobbing his head and teasing around the tip like he usually does, Shane sits completely still with the full weight of it resting on his tongue.
Ilya takes a shaky breath, sparing a glance down at Shane before looking back at the screen. He watches as clips of himself play, one after another, struggling to keep his attention on the TV rather than the warm mouth swallowing him down. His hips jerk when Shane sucks lightly, a poor attempt at keeping drool from slipping past his lips.
Typically when Shane gives head, he bathes in the praise that Ilya gives him, eyes facing up to meet his gaze and watch every intricate detail of his expression.
This time is the complete opposite. Ilya would’ve believed that Shane had fallen asleep if it wasn’t for the occasional slurp and shift of his knees.
A subconscious hand lifts to pet through Shane’s hair, muscle memory kicking in as Ilya fights to keep his eyes up. The delicious twitch of Shane’s tongue flexing along the underside of his cock causes his hips to pitch forward, both of them moaning loudly. Shane nods absentmindedly with his cheek resting on Ilya’s thigh, an invitation to go further.
Calloused fingers thread through silky black strands of hair, the new grip allowing Ilya to guide Shane’s pliant mouth up and down. Shane keeps his jaw slack and throat open, basking in the breathless curses coming from his husband.
“And what a shot from Ilya Rozanov! It’s been a while since we’ve seen a player with this much grit and aggression on the ice. I have a feeling that Rozanov could take Boston all the way this year.”
The commentator’s words are drowned out by deep groans echoing off the wall as Ilya comes, freckled nose buried in the patch of rough curly hair at the base of his cock. He rides out his orgasm buried in Shane’s throat, eyes glazing over at how easy it seems for Shane to swallow his entire load. No matter how many times he proves his blowjob abilities, Ilya is always amazed.
Shane pulls off slowly, dragging his tongue up the length and suckling the tip to ensure he swallows every last drop. He gives the slit one last tentative lick before resting his chin on Ilya’s knee and smiling lazily up at him.
“Thank you for using me.”
4.
Being able to sleep in is a blessing. As much as Shane loves his routine, the off season gives him a chance to reset his body clock and get some much needed rest.
His dream is particularly nice, a moutwatering fantasy of riding Ilya at center ice after a blowout win. It feels realistic, maybe a little too realistic, when dream Ilya begins to eat him out. That familiar feeling of the thick wet muscle pushing in and out of his rim feels too close, too intrinsic for what he usually feels in his dreams, the euphoria much stronger than it’s ever been.
His own moan is what wakes him up, his eyes fluttering open as the noise escapes his throat. Once his vision clears, he’s able to analyze his surroundings. He’s on his stomach, torso flush against the bed, and feels Ilya’s hands spreading his asscheeks apart.
Hot breath pants across his hole, sending a shiver up his spine. Shane barely has time to look over his shoulder before Ilya is diving back in, shoving his tongue as deep as it can go.
“Oh fuck,” Shane whimpers, pushing his hips back into each thrust of Ilya’s tongue. As his hips move, he feels a cooling sticky sensation in his briefs. Jesus, he already fucking came in his sleep. Who knows how long Ilya has been at this.
“Good morning, solnyshko,” Ilya grins as he comes up for air. “Hope you don’t mind. I woke up craving my favorite breakfast.”
“You are so annoyi— ohhhhh.” Shane trails off into a breathless groan as a finger pushes past his rim.
“Right, yes. I am annoying? Says the one who was begging for it in his sleep.”
Shane tries to form words, but only manages a confused noise that blends into a moan when a second finger joins the first.
“Oh, my poor Shaney,” Ilya tuts condescendingly, “You were having such a good dream. Moaning and whining and humping the bed. What was it about, hm?”
“You,” Shane cries, burying his face in a pillow while Ilya presses down on his prostate, hard enough to make his vision blur on the edges.
“Obviously, yes. Nobody would ever fuck you like I do, why would you need to dream about them?”
“Wasn’t. Just you. Only you. Always you.” Shane struggles to get the words out, syllables muffled in the pillow. Drool slides from the corner of his mouth as Ilya scissors his fingers, stretching Shane’s hole with a V-shape that allows room for his tongue to shove between the digits.
“You came from just my tongue earlier, sweetheart. So, so beautiful. Your little noises are so pretty.” Ilya curls his fingers just to pull more sounds out of Shane as an example. “Even when you’re asleep, you still beg for it. ‘Oh, Ilya, please’ so whiny and desperate. Dreaming about my dick because you can never get enough.”
“Please,” Shane sobs, pushing back in an attempt to fuck Ilya’s fingers faster.
A loud crack echoes in the room as Ilya’s other hand makes contact with Shane’s hip, the skin blooming red and hot.
“Sorry, I don’t speak slut. You will need to use your words, Hollander.”
Shane’s whole body jolts at Ilya’s words, clenching around the fingers still working him open. Thoughts are impossible to form, the neurons in his brain refusing to send proper signals that allow him to speak. Tight pressure circles his prostate, Ilya’s warm tongue occasionally dips past his rim to slide next to his fingers. It teeters on the verge of overstimulating.
“Please fuck me. Please, baby. I need it. I need you to fuck me,” Shane begs into the pillow, gripping the sheets so hard that the fitted corner slips off the mattress. “Fuck, hold on. I need to—”
“Hollander, I swear on my life, do not fix the sheets while we’re in the middle of sex.”
Ilya coats his cock in lube and presses the blunt head to Shane’s hole before he can retort, wasting no time sinking to the hilt.
Shane’s eyes roll in the back of his head, jaw dropping in a guttural moan that sends vibrations through his chest.
The pace is merciless, headboard banging against the wall as each thrust slides Shane’s body further up the bed. One hand grips the back of his neck, the other holding his hip in a bruising grasp.
“That’s right. Take it,” Ilya grunts, snapping his hips impossibly faster. “You take it like such a good boy, my Shane. My best boy. You were made for me.”
“Made for you,” Shane slurs out blissfully, barely audible from his face being pressed into the bed.
If the submission wasn’t enough to push Shane closer to the edge, the sounds coming from Ilya definitely would be. Each thrust is punctuated by a loud uhn, his voice rough as gravel, borderline growling. It feels raunchy, primitive—animalistic, even.
The noises filling the room are obscene; a symphony of groans, sobs, slapping skin, and the headboard knocking against the wall. If he listens hard enough, Shane can hear the faint squelch of lube as Ilya pounds into him. He’s surprised that he can hear anything, really, with the ringing that’s slowly increasing in his ears.
His mouth is moving… possibly. Maybe. He isn’t quite sure anymore. His head feels fuzzy. Any thought is overtaken by IlyaIlyaIlya and the fullness that he savors.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Ilya coos, “You’ve been fucked stupid, huh? Can’t even speak?”
Shane just nods to the best of his ability, eyes screwed shut with his open mouth sliding across the bed. The sheets are a mess, inevitably on their way to being ruined even more, with streaks of drool and sweat and lube and remnants of Shane’s first orgasm.
An orgasm that Ilya managed to pull out of him while he was sleeping.
Fuck. That reminder makes him clench, earning a surprised whimper from Ilya and the grip on his neck tightening.
“Do you think you deserve to be filled?” Ilya asks, leaning over to whisper the filthy words in Shane’s ear.
“Please,” Shane attempts to say, but being pressed into the mattress makes it difficult to move his mouth properly.
The hand on the back of his neck slides up into his hair, tugging hard to pull his head up and freeing his face from the bundled up sheets.
Shane finally opens his eyes for the first time in… who knows how long. The dim morning light creeping in through the curtains still makes him blink in adjustment. He gasps and inhales deeply, barely realizing how out of breath he was.
“I couldn’t hear you, шлюха. Tell me again.” Ilya shifts his knees to get a better angle, hitting Shane’s sweet spot with every thrust.
“Please, Ilya. Oh my god,” Shane chokes out, tears streaking down his cheeks.
“Use your words. Do… you… deserve… to be…filled?” Ilya punctuates each word with a particularly hard thrust that punches strangled sobs out of Shane.
“Yes. Fuck. I need it. I need you to fill me. Please, Ilya. Oh my god, pleasepleaseplease.”
With his teeth sinking into Shane’s shoulder, Ilya manages three more thrusts before spilling into him. The warmth of Ilya’s release coating his insides sends Shane right over the edge with him, shuddering against the sheets as his untouched cock adds to the mess.
After they’ve both caught their breath, Ilya finally pulls out with a wince. Shane doesn’t move aside from turning his head to the side to face Ilya. He nuzzles into the pillow and sighs, looking at Ilya through hooded eyelids.
“Okay?” Ilya asks softly.
Shane nods. “Very okay. Better than okay.”
5.
Shane has decided to play a dangerous game today. He woke up feeling particularly mischievous, sneaking out of bed to make sure Ilya stayed asleep.
That past month has been extremely stressful. Between an attempted homophobic smear campaign against Shane and unexpected inconsistencies in the Irina Foundation spending report, Shane’s cortisol levels were skyrocketing.
He needed to let go. He needed to lose control, to get out of his head for a little while. He needed to escape to a place where his only thought is Ilya and the outside world didn’t exist. A place where his body and mind are separate, where he can simply exist as nothing but a hole for Ilya’s pleasure.
It also happens to be laundry day, so… great excuse to walk around naked. The plug inside of him, however, is purely self indulgence.
It’s one of his favorites, traditional bullet-shaped with a flared edge in a soft semi-green color, almost identical to the hazel shade of Ilya’s eyes.
(Which may or may not be why he bought it… and it may or may not be custom ordered.)
And of course, in his usual fashion, he leaves the empty box that typically houses the toy on top of his pillow like a Horny Hollander bat signal.
His morning routine plays out without a hiccup, though it does feel a bit weird being naked as he makes his green juice.
With a few more minutes until Ilya’s usual wake up time, Shane gets a sinister idea. He sneaks back into their room, silently thanking himself for letting Anya outside early, and steps slowly until he makes it to their walk-in closet. In the back corner of the closet, tucked away in a shoebox, Shane finds what he’s looking for.
Another round of careful footsteps leads him out of the room and down to one of the spare bedrooms. From the box, Shane pulls out a French maid skirt; black satin with a simple frilled white apron, barely long enough to hit mid-thigh. He slips it on and ties the apron around his waist before stepping into the spare bathroom to check himself out.
Now, Shane would not necessarily consider himself conceited, but he knows that he’s attractive. In all fairness, he has been named as the hottest man in the NHL. Seeing himself in nothing but this skirt is a sight that he can appreciate, and his skin buzzes with excitement for Ilya’s reaction.
His to-do list is short, mostly small chores around the house that only take a few minutes. When he gets to unloading the dishwasher, Ilya finally comes into the kitchen.
Their eyes lock as they both freeze, Ilya scanning over his body to take in every last detail. The silence in the room is only cut by their breathing. In a split second, Ilya rushes across the kitchen and crashes their lips together in a kiss that ends too soon for Shane’s liking. Before he can whine, Ilya shoves him down to his knees.
One hand grips his jaw, forcing his mouth open while the other hand feeds Ilya’s cock inside. The weight on his tongue is heavenly, pressing the button that sends signals to his brain to start sinking. He can feel the static beginning to spread, thick clouds rolling in to cast shadows on the stress that has been overtaking him.
The tip of Ilya’s cock nudges the back of his throat before Shane can even register how much is in his mouth. He is at Ilya’s mercy, blissfully and very grateful.
He knows that Ilya knows that he needs this, and he knows that Ilya knows that he knows that Ilya knows that he needs this.
Ilya has the closest to first-hand experience of what Shane has dealt with over the last month. He has seen Shane’s reaction to the gossip articles as they come out, he’s held him close on particularly hard nights when Shane wasn’t able to fight back his tears anymore. He’s taken notice of the increased frequency in which Shane asks Ilya to fuck him so hard that he forgets everything.
It’s heartbreaking, Ilya often wishes he could do more. Shane often wishes he didn’t feel so broken.
With his husband’s cock sliding in and out of his throat, he feels slightly more put together. It’s nice to let his brain shut off, to sink into a place where his only focus can be Ilya.
The hand holding Ilya’s cock moves up to twist in Shane’s hair, the fingers gripping his jaw slide down just slightly to rest over Shane’s throat, allowing Ilya to feel the constriction of muscle as he swallows around the length.
Shane lets his body go limp, only held up by the grip Ilya has on his head, letting himself be used like he’s nothing but a warm hole. It’s freeing, he can feel the tension leaving his shoulders.
Ilya’s shout echoes off the walls when he comes, forcing Shane to take everything that he gives him.
Shane’s eyes roll in the back of his head. Despite being untouched, he already aches for release, and the satin brushing against his cock doesn’t provide nearly enough friction.
Ilya slides out slowly, dragging the length along Shane’s tongue and smearing leftover droplets of cum across his puffy lips. Shane cracks open his eyes, staring up at his husband with blown pupils.
“Swallow like a good little fuckdoll.”
He obeys without hesitation.
Ilya taps his cheek twice and walks away without another word, mindlessly stuffing his dick back into his pajama pants and humming like it’s just a casual day.
The next three hours pass by quickly, Shane finishes up chores and barely sees Ilya other than fleeting moments in passing. It seems like Ilya is attempting to avoid him, testing how patient Shane can be on a day like today, how long Shane can withhold an orgasm.
Which, to be fair, edging is a pretty common practice in their relationship. They equally love torturing each other, building each other up to a desperate release that takes over their bodies.
So, Shane is a pro. This is easy work… Until he sits down to read and is reminded of the plug in his ass.
The press of the toy punches a surprised moan out of him, loud enough that Ilya could definitely hear it from the other room. He holds his breath, freezing for a beat to listen for any movement. To his relief, he only hears the clang of weights coming from their home gym.
Deciding that he’s too aroused distracted to read, Shane heads for the dining room. The seasons were changing, meaning it’s time to redo the centerpiece on the dining table.
The woven basket full of various decorative spring flowers is put into the spare closet and replaced with a bright green abstract vase full of fake sunflowers.
Just as the vase is adjusted to the precise angle that Shane approves of, Ilya appears in the open archway with an evil grin on his face.
Shane holds his breath as Ilya steps closer, following every movement with curious eyes. Ilya stops directly behind him, body heat radiating from him onto Shane’s bare skin. As Shane tries to look over his shoulder, a singular finger gently pushes on his cheek to direct his eyes forward.
Both hands are gathered behind his back before Ilya lowers his torso to the dining table. The hand not holding Shane’s wrists caresses his hip over the skirt before reaching down to flip it up.
Ilya freezes, his grip on Shane’s wrists tightening as he inhales deeply through his nose.
The plug is removed and placed on the table next to Shane’s face, the click of a small lube bottle being opened makes his ears perk up.
Of course Ilya would just be carrying lube around in his pocket. He’s been hunting Shane, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.
Ilya bottoms out with ease, and the pace is immediately merciless. Keeping his grip on Shane’s wrists, the other digs into his hip, pulling his body back to meet every thrust.
He’s given up on keeping quiet, moaning loudly and drooling against the table as he rocks against it. For a second, his eyes flick up to the vase to make sure it’s not going to fall over and break.
Ilya catches it, tracking his line of sight and holding back an amused snort. He pauses his thrusts and grabs the vase before setting it on the floor and resuming his brutal pace.
Shane presses his forehead against the table and smiles to himself, trying not to cry from how much his heart is bursting. He really fucking loves Ilya, little moments like that are great reminders of why—not that he actually needs to be reminded.
Ilya brings his knee up to the table, the shift in position causing his cock to angle perfectly against Shane’s prostate.
“Oh, fuck,” Shane cries, nails digging into his palms.
“Tell me, Моя кукла, do you think you deserve to cum? You’re allowed to speak.”
“Yes, please,” Shane whimpers, clenching around Ilya for encouragement.
“Please, what?”
Ilya gives one deep, hard thrust then pauses while his hips are flush against Shane’s. He grinds against him, sliding his hand over to thumb at Shane’s stretched rim.
“Please, sir.”
Ilya’s hand returns to Shane’s bruised hip and continues pounding into him.
“You’ve been walking around in this fucking skirt all day, filled with a fucking plug, and you think you deserve to finish? Really?”
Shane only responds with a quiet whine, tongue heavy as his brain fills with static once again.
“You only get to cum if you admit what you are: just a hole for me to fill. Isn’t that right? Say it.” Ilya’s voice is dark, dripping in lust.
“I-I’m just… a hole,” Shane mumbles, struggling to form the words.
“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.” Ilya rears his hand back and lands a harsh slap where Shane’s ass meets his thigh. “Say it again. Louder. And say it right.”
“I’m just a hole, sir.”
“Fuck,” Ilya whispers under his breath, his jaw clenching in the familiar way it always does when he’s close.
It only takes a few more thrusts before he’s spilling into Shane with a broken groan and choking out permission for Shane to let go.
Ilya collapses on top of Shane’s back as they catch their breath, brushing stray hairs out of his face and kissing across his temple and cheek.
“Where the fuck is this skirt from? I need to shake the hand of whoever made it,” Ilya asks, voice slightly muffled from where his lips stay pressed against Shane’s cheekbone.
“No idea. I bought it a few months ago and hid it in the back of the closet. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”
“And what is the special occasion today?”
“I really fucking needed it.”
“Fair enough.”
Ilya helps Shane stand, dragging the ruined skirt down his legs and holding his hand to keep him steady as he steps out of it. The sticky fabric is tossed into the hamper on their way to the shower, where Ilya pampers Shane with soft kisses as he washes his hair. Shane barely lifts a finger, Ilya insists on washing both Shane and himself.
Once they’re dried and settled on the couch in comfortable clothes, Ilya brings Shane a glass of water and a bowl of his favorite fruits.
“Feel any better?” Ilya asks, petting through Shans’s damp hair.
Shane nods as he finishes chewing a blueberry. “A little bit. It was nice to get out of my head for a while.”
“Your mom is taking care of it, the lawyers are already involved. We’ll get through this, okay?”
“Okay.” Shane bites the inside of his cheek, zoning out as he stares into the bowl of fruit in his hands.
“Hey. I love you.”
“I love you back.”
They’ll be okay. They always end up okay.
+1
Shane doesn’t have a lot of regrets in life.
One of his biggest regrets, however, is encouraging Ilya to play video games with Hayden. What he expected to be a bonding experience has just become another opportunity for Ilya to insult Hayden, especially when they play NHL 24. Which, in hindsight, Shane should’ve expected.
But now it’s been three days. Three entire days of their limited off season time spent playing video games and berating Hayden.
“Pike, I am playing with one eye closed and still destroying you. Did one of your children steal the controller?” Shane hears from the living room. He sighs, rolling his eyes at the back of Ilya’s headset-clad head.
“Okay, right, you need to go grocery shopping with Jackie. That’s why you’re leaving, not because you are embarrassed by your lack of skills.”
Shane can hear the muffled sound of Hayden’s voice through the headphones. It’s not loud enough for him to make out any of the words, but he suspects that it’s something along the lines of “fuck you, Rozanov.”
Ilya laughs before closing out the online chat. Instead of shutting off the console like Shane expects, he opens up the fucking career mode of the game.
The rope snaps, and Shane can no longer contain his frustration.
“Are you serious, Ilya?”
Ilya pauses the game and looks over his shoulder, wide eyed and startled.
“What? Do you want to play with me?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Shane huffs. He stomps over, stripping off his clothes in the process, leaving a trail along the floor that he’ll worry about later.
Ilya looks up from the screen, jaw dropping as his eyes grow darker. “What—”
“Go ahead. Hit start.”
“I thought you wanted to play with me?”
“Yes. I’m going to play with you while you play your game.”
Shane grabs lube from the side table and splays out on the couch beside Ilya, leaning back against the armrest with one leg laying across Ilya’s lap while the other knee is pulled up to his chest.
He pets at his hole with three slick fingers before pushing one inside, arching his back obscenely and moaning far too loud for just one finger.
Ilya pauses the game and stares at where Shane stretches himself, which earns a kick to his thigh.
“Nuh-uh. Play your game. I’m taking care of myself, you’re just here,” Shane snaps, arching an eyebrow.
Ilya swallows, gives one last lingering look toward Shane’s fingers, then returns his attention to the game.
The torture only gets worse, Shane grows louder and louder with each passing second as he builds up to three fingers. Once he’s stretched to his satisfaction, he leans over to shuffle Ilya’s shorts down to his thighs, his cock already hard enough to rip through the fabric of his briefs.
Shane never looks at his face, keeping his eyes locked on where he’s spreading lube over the length before swinging a leg over Ilya’s lap.
Ilya struggles to keep his gaze on the game over Shane’s shoulder, knowing he’ll be reprimanded if he dares to look. Unfortunately, he’s unable to suppress the moan that slips out when Shane fully sinks down. It’s quick, and only one, so Shane simply gives him a warning look before lifting his hips.
“Yeah, that’s nice,” Shane breathes out as he builds a steady rhythm.
His thighs flex as he bounces, balancing himself with both hands on Ilya’s shoulders. Behind him, boos echo from the virtual crowd inside the game, indicating that Ilya messed up in some way. Shane can’t help but smirk to himself.
As his riding grows faster, Ilya lets more noises slip out. Shane allows it, for now, testing how loud he wants Ilya to get.
One particularly hard slam of his hips, clenching down in the process, pulls a gruff whine from Ilya that causes Shane to stop moving.
“Do you mind? I’m trying to concentrate and you’re distracting me with all the noise.”
And, wow, that affects Ilya a lot more than Shane expected. His pupils blow impossibly larger, cock twitching inside of Shane. He wrenches his eyes shut, taking in a shaky breath, then directs his attention back to the TV.
Shane lifts off, barely giving Ilya time to think before turning away from him and sinking back down again.
He braces himself with both hands on Ilya’s knees and continues riding with an agonizing pace. The meat of his thighs ripple with each impact, sounds of slapping skin drowning out the audio effects in the game. Shane is moving so fast that Ilya can barely hold on to the controller.
Ilya sinks his teeth into his bottom lip to hold back the noises threatening to spill out, hard enough that he almost tastes blood.
Shane, on the other hand, isn’t holding back. He’s letting out every possible noise; moans of every pitch, breathless whimpers, an occasional barely audible fuck. It’s music to Ilya’s ears.
Ilya attempts to make his player on the game score, but shanks the shot as Shane suddenly clenches down and comes hard with a fist flying over his cock.
Before Ilya can join him, Shane stands up and leaves his lap feeling cold. His head shoots up, confusion and desperation written all over his face.
“Aw, did you think that you would get to cum too?” Shane asks, tone filled with pure malice.
“Wh—”
“Here’s the deal. You’ve been attached to this fucking Playstation for three days now. Berating Hayden, might I add.” Shane leans over and cups Ilya’s jaw, staring into his glazed eyes. “You’re going to finish the laundry and put away the dishes while I sit on the couch and play video games. Once you’re done, then you get to cum. Sound good?”
Ilya nods, lips parted and irises barely visible.
Shane takes the controller from Ilya’s hand with a satisfied grin, ushering his dazed body toward the laundry room.
After cleaning himself up and slipping on some comfortable clothes, Shane relaxes back into the couch and starts a new game.